


Perchance to Dream

by halfpennies



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:21:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfpennies/pseuds/halfpennies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur wakes up in a mental hospital and is told everything he believes to be real is fantasy. There is no such thing as dream sharing. But Eames, another patient, tells Arthur he was right all along. Heavily inspired by <a href="http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/20092.html?thread=48362876">this prompt</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perchance to Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Characters, world, etc. are not mine - this is just for fun <3 And ty to my two lovely betas :*

_Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams? - **Alfred Lord Tennyson**_

~*~

 

"I like this," Arthur said with a smile across the breakfast bar at Eames. The scent and sizzling sound of frying eggs filled the little apartment, and Arthur was starting to believe Eames's assurances that he knew how to properly cook a basic breakfast for two.

"Me cooking for you?" Eames asked with a little smirk over his bare shoulder. All of Arthur's warnings about the dangers of cooking shirtless had fallen on deaf ears. "Don't get too used to it, darling. I'm only any good at pretending to be domestic."

"I meant living together between jobs," Arthur clarified. He shook his head, his lips twisting into a wry smirk before he drank down his orange juice and carried on with the novelty of enjoying his pre-breakfast eye candy.

It was a new arrangement, much like their relationship was still relatively new. Arthur was still a little surprised and relieved that his revelation of his feelings about Eames hadn't ended in rejection of some sort. Knowing Eames had seen their antagonistic banter as flirtation as well had made it a lot easier to explain grabbing and kissing the forger in the first place. It had taken years of keeping his attraction to and affection for Eames to himself, but he'd finally worked up the nerve and it had paid off in a big way.

Breakfast was simple but delicious, and followed by a lazy day watching British comedies that they both liked, laughing their way through lunch. In the evening they met up with Ariadne for dinner at a little outdoor cafe and she updated them on how Cobb was doing in the wake of the Fischer job.

"I'd say he's almost as happy as you two are," she said between bites of her panini. She smiled between the two of them and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Of course it's hard to compete with young lovers moving in together."

"I heard from Yusuf he's finally dating again," Eames offered up with a knowing smile. "I think it's good for him. And the kids. Not that anyone can replace their mum, but having a stable and happy dad around's better than the alternative."

"Anyone we know?" Arthur asked with a quirk of one brow. He wasn't a great fan of gossip, but in their business people tended to not get involved with those that weren't in the know. Or at least not with anyone who hadn't had dream defense training.

"Mmhm." Eames hummed his reply while sipping his beer, his eyes shifting pointedly over to Ariadne as his brows shot up toward his hairline.

"Does this mean you're going to be moving sometime soon?" Arthur asked, attempting to mask his mild shock by taking a bite of his own sandwich. While he'd sensed that Ariadne might have formed a more than platonic attachment to Cobb, he'd had no idea the feeling was reciprocated. He wasn't sure how he could've missed something like that, but then again he'd been busy with the inception job and a little low profile extraction job he'd taken shortly after.

"I'm not sure yet. But I haven't discounted the possibility," Ariadne said. Her blush was apparent even in the relatively dim artificial lighting.

The trio ate and chatted for another hour before they parted ways again with friendly good byes and promises to hang out again soon.

Once back at the apartment, Eames wasted no time getting Arthur into a compromising position in the living room. The larger man's fingers flew down the buttons on Arthur's shirt after tugging his sweater vest off over his head and mussing his hair. They were a tangle of hands and clothes, naked by the time they reached the couch. Eames pinned Arthur down to the couch with his entire body, rutting against him wantonly and muttering dirty suggestions between kisses.

Arthur blindly reached out for the drawer at the bottom of the coffee table and managed to grab the lube and then a strip of still connected condoms. His breathing was already turning into gasps of pleasure as his hard cock slid against Eames's, trapped between them.

"Here," Arthur breathed, tapping his boyfriend's muscular, tattooed arm with the supplies.

"And what should I do with these, love?" Eames broke away properly to ask. He leaned up, sitting on Arthur's slender thighs, and took the condoms and lube.

"Ride me." Arthur licked his lips as one hand gripped Eames's hip and the other grabbed Eames's cock. He stroked lazily but firmly as he looked up at Eames through half lidded eyes.

"I was hoping you'd say that," Eames said with a smirk of a smile as he separated one condom wrapper from the rest. Then he grabbed Arthur's hand, the one that wasn't already preoccupied, and lubed up his fingers.

Arthur didn't need any more direction than that. He slid his hand down between Eames's powerful thighs, back behind his balls, and gently teased him. Eames sank down on one of Arthur's fingers, then two, with a groan muffled by his teeth scraping over his full bottom lip.

"Don't even think about getting off before I'm inside you," Arthur said. He stopped jerking Eames's cock in favor of grabbing the condom wrapper himself and trying to get it open with one hand.

"You're already inside me." Eames grunted as he angled his body back a little, trying to find the right position as he rode his boyfriend's fingers.

"Smartass," Arthur chided affectionately. He knew perfectly well, now, that Eames would want more than his fingers.

And soon enough the condom was in place, Eames shifted into position, and Arthur's hips tried desperately to match Eames's hips thrust for counter-thrust. Arthur couldn't keep his hands or his eyes off of Eames. He stroked him again with one hand, more urgently this time, while the other hand gripped any part of Eames's solid body that it could reach. Arthur went off first, but Eames was right behind him.

They cleaned up, then settled down on the couch together in their pajamas. Eames was wired and couldn't settle on any one thing to watch for too long. Adult cartoons. Late night talk shows. Movies. Reruns. Arthur, however, was tired and contented and fell asleep across Eames's warm lap in the middle of a Jackie Chan movie.

~~~~~

"Good morning, Mr. Wright."

Arthur didn't recognize the chipper male voice off to his right. That wasn't Eames. Nor did he recognize the white tiled ceiling and bright fluorescent light fixture above him. He blinked a few times and tried to sit up in his bed, to figure out where he was, why Eames's warmth and body weight weren't there next to him.

Tight restraints held his arms, legs and torso to the bed. He tried to crane his neck to get a better look at the off white straps tethering him down, but found his head was strapped to the bed just as tightly as the rest of him.

"Did you have pleasant dreams? No more nightmares?" the man asked, sounding genuinely interested in whatever answer Arthur would give him. He was an average looking man dressed in blue scrubs. His light brown hair was cut short and had a slight wave to it, but Arthur couldn't make out any further details without being able to turn his head and get a real look at him. "Doctor Mears is very interested in how your new medication is working out for you."

Arthur tried to process what was going on, but came up with nothing but panic. He struggled against the straps in as calm and methodical a manner as possible, flexing his muscles in turn to try to discern any weaknesses in his bonds. But there was no give. He was stuck in a white room, strapped to a table, wearing his favorite pair of dark gray pajama pants, a navy blue t-shirt and plain white socks.

"Where am I? Who are you? Where's Eames?" Arthur blurted out, rapid fire, as the man in scrubs bustled around at the periphery of his vision.

"She said you'd probably be a little disoriented, and that's okay. But I'm going to need you to calm down before I let you go to the bathroom and then to the cafeteria," the man said in calm, soothing tones. He finally moved into Arthur's field of vision, hovering at the side of the bed and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I'm Oscar, one of the orderlies, and you're at Penrose State Hospital."

Arthur exhaled, but didn't fully relax. He'd have to play along if he wanted to get anywhere. The first thing he was going to do was check his totem. The second thing he was going to do was find a way out of this damn place.

"There we go," Oscar said with a smile and started to unbuckle the straps at Arthur's legs. "Now, were you dreaming about your friend again? Eames?"

"Boyfriend," Arthur corrected without thinking about it. Only, now that he _did_ think about it, he wasn't entirely certain that was correct either. It felt right in his chest, but only for a fleeting moment before the tight feeling was replaced with a quickly expanding sensation of doubt. Had he been dreaming? He'd been happy, he knew that. And he hadn't been tethered to a damn bed. And Eames had definitely been there.

"Things are really moving along then, aren't they?" Oscar hummed in amusement as he carried on unbuckling Arthur's straps. "I thought he was just a great big tease."

"He can be." Arthur furrowed his brows at the orderly, not really sure he liked where this conversation was going. He definitely didn't like what it implied about previous conversations.

"But this time he wasn't?" Oscar asked, smiling up at Arthur like he'd just won some sort of prize.

"Not really... no." Arthur's forehead creased further as he tried to remember the last thing he remembered doing with more clarity. He'd been lying on the couch with Eames watching television late into the night. The couch in their shared apartment. Everything had been going so well. He'd been so stupidly content. _Everyone_ he knew was happy and enjoying life. And it had all been too good to be true. " _Shit_."

"The doctor will be happy to know you've had a good dream for a change. That means the medicine is working. I guess triple the usual dose wasn't as crazy as it sounded after all." The orderly finished unbuckling the last strap and clapped his hands together softly. "There you go. Now, are you ready for your first day back on the regular ward with the other patients?"

Arthur stretched his limbs as he sat up on the bed, working out the stiffness that had seemed to settle into his joints. He nodded at Oscar, not really wanting to say anything else for the moment lest he ended up strapped to the bed again. Just because he felt sure his previous state of "consciousness" was a dream didn't exclude his present state from being one as well. But discussing that with Oscar the orderly wasn't going to get him anywhere if the man was another dreamer, a forger or a projection.

Maybe he'd been caught somehow. Maybe Fischer had discovered what had happened. Or maybe he was trying to figure out what had happened and wanted to extract the information from a very knowledgeable source. He huffed a sardonic breath as he thought about just how difficult his mind would make _that_ job for anyone involved.

"Here's your shoes, Mr. Wright," Oscar said, and placed a pair of navy blue slip-on sneakers in front of Arthur's feet.

"Thank you." Arthur cleared his throat, trying to get the last bit of morning frogginess out of his voice, then reached for the top drawer on the simple white nightstand and pulled it open. He slipped on the shoes as he stood up and leaned over the drawer, finding nothing but a small box of tissues, a clear case of cotton balls and a box of latex gloves. He pulled all three containers out of the drawer and peered into the back of it, but the damn thing was empty.

Oscar waited patiently and quietly as Arthur carried on going through the second drawer and the cabinet below to find nothing but hospital supplies and a hide-away garbage can. "No dice?" the orderly said, caution in his voice.

"Where is it?" Arthur's head whipped back to eye Oscar suspiciously. This was unprecedented. He always had his totem on him or very nearby, awake _or_ asleep.

"Dr. Mears felt it would be best if your die was kept safely in the contraband closet since it causes you so much stress," Oscar explained calmly, the look in his eyes saying that he'd repeated the same information to Arthur multiple times before. "If you want, you can request to have it back in your session after breakfast."

"Yes, I think I'll do that," Arthur said.

He put the things back neatly into the drawers, just the way he'd found them, then followed Oscar out into the hall. The orderly babbled on about some of the patients by name, but Arthur had no idea who they were and didn't care that they'd been waiting for him to come around. The closer they got to the cafeteria, the more the scents of breakfast food wafted through the air.

Fried eggs. Toast. A hint of bacon. Arthur wasn't sure if he felt hungry. He was too busy trying not to feel gutted, knowing that Eames wasn't going to be the cook.

~~~~~

"Oscar's told me that you slept well last night, Arthur," Dr. Mears said as she glanced up at Arthur over her reading glasses. Her long, curly brown hair was pulled back into a loose bun that contrasted with her crisp pantsuit.

"I had a very pleasant dream," Arthur replied without much emotion as he read over the doctor's framed credentials and awards hanging on her office wall between towering book shelves. Doctor Valerie Mears. Ivy League student. Award winning psychiatry researcher. Marathon runner.

"Would you like to tell me about it?" Dr. Mears asked in a tone that implied she wouldn't be upset if he chose not to.

"It was the most wonderful week of my life. Or... at least I think it was a week. Time can be tricky in dreams. It felt like I'd been there longer, just floating between jobs on my last paycheck. I got to know my coworkers better outside of the job. Everyone was... happy. I was settling down, I think. It was boring, but good." Arthur stopped his circuit of the room, realizing he was walking around the periphery of the room with his hands clasped behind his back, thoughtfully looking at everything while trying to find any sign at all that he was dreaming.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She had books on psychology and medicine. There were several hanging plants and a decorative plastic tree near the door. Snow globes from London, New York and Las Vegas dotted one otherwise empty book shelf. Framed photos and a decorative brain shaped paperweight were the only real personal effects on the woman's desk.

"A welcome break from the usual nightmares," Dr. Mears said from her large leather armchair. She smiled up at Arthur as he turned to look at her, then jotted something down on the papers attached to her clipboard. "And how are you feeling this morning?"

"Tired."

The doctor jotted down something else on her papers, then glanced up at Arthur expectantly.

"Alone."

"But you're not alone here, Arthur. I'm here with you in this room. And I know you've already had breakfast with some of the other patients, some of them are your friends. Wesley and Lauren. And you know our staff members," Dr. Mears said with a small smile.

"You asked how I was feeling, not what I was seeing around me," Arthur countered dryly. Finally, he took a seat on one of the sofas at a comfortable distance from the doctor.

"Fair enough," she said with a hint of amusement.

"Where is Mr. Eames?" Arthur couldn't hold the question back any longer.

Dr. Mears tilted her head to the side and suddenly looked tired herself. She arched her brows and adjusted her glasses on the end of her nose. "I thought we'd already worked through your unhealthy fixation on Eames. If I recall correctly, you decided that you were better off keeping him at arms length for the sake of your own emotional well being."

"He's still my..." Was there a word for what Eames was to him? Coworker, certainly. But was he really a friend any more? The more Arthur tried to think back, to think about past jobs, past nights out, past innocuous events, the more unsure he was about what he felt about anything. "He's my friend. We watch each other's backs."

"You were stalking him."

"I keep tabs on him. In case he needs me. Or in case I don't feel like dealing with him."

"And to find out who he's been sleeping with."

Arthur clenched his jaw for a moment. Just how much had he told this woman? Or how much had she, or whoever she was working for, found out about him? These weren't things he'd ever voiced aloud to anyone before. But he supposed someone might find out by tailing him long enough and well enough.

"I think it's more important that you focus on yourself now. I'm going to add another prescription to your evening regimen, something to help you feel more well rested now that we've got your dreams under control," Dr. Mears said as she jotted down more notes. "Was there anything else you wanted to talk about today, Arthur?"

"Can I please have my die back?" His dark eyes looked directly into the doctor's blue ones, pleading with her to please give him a way out. If she was another dreamer, then she was human and she had to have some ounce of mercy or pity in her make up.

"Not until you no longer need it. It's a crutch and right now it only serves as a focal point for your delusions." She held up a hand at Arthur's vocal protest, a pained look crossing her bird-like features. "We've made progress, a lot of progress, over the last fifteen months, so please forgive me for being so blunt. But when you can prove to me that you genuinely _know_ that you are not a thought criminal, that you cannot share other people's dreams, that you are not part of an elite 'dream team' composed of your friends, family and acquaintances, then and only then will I let you have your die back and happily discharge you from the hospital."

Arthur's cheek twitched as his mouth fell open and he glanced up at the ceiling. He laughed, a humorless sound, and felt like he was about to cry, scream or punch something if he didn't get himself under control.

"It's all been a series of dreams? Chronologically occurring dreams with their own innate logic and a recurring cast of characters?" Arthur knew if there was someone crazy in the room, it was certainly _not_ him.

"Dreams always make sense at the time, when you're in the middle of them, don't they? And when you're awake, all the especially powerful moments of your dreams stick with you. You, Arthur, have made a solid living off of taking those dream fragments and piecing them together into a coherent string of stories. You're a brilliant writer and artist. Please don't forget that you have a career outside these walls. One that was just beginning to build up momentum in the comic book industry," Dr. Mears said, her clipboard finally abandoned in her lap as she gestured with her neatly manicured hands. "You have your sister waiting for you. Your business partner, too."

"My sister," Arthur deadpanned as he tried to glean the truth out of all the bullshit he'd just been fed. He didn't have a sister. He didn't have any siblings that he was aware of.

"Ariadne," the doctor said, her eyes going wide again, watching her patient carefully. "She visited you about two weeks ago."

"Right," Arthur said with a sigh and slouched back against the sofa. Playing along had to be the best way through this. He'd play along, find out where the contraband cabinet was, break into it, roll the die and go from there. "But no boyfriend on the other side."

"No, I'm afraid not. But that doesn't mean there _couldn't_ be one in your future," the doctor said, her tone going sympathetic. Then she smiled at him again and pulled her glasses off of her face to hang around her neck by a decorative and noisy beaded chain. "There was a line in one of your comics... 'You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.'"

Arthur's breath caught in his throat, a weight that shifted down painfully to the center of his chest. _Eames_. How many times had Eames said that to him? Teased him about his tight, methodical grip on his imagination? Who would know about that sort of goading outside of the people they'd worked with?

"In this case, you need to start living a little bigger. Once you've got your headspace under control again, of course. But that's why you're here. And I'm here to help you," the doctor continued, but her words fell on deaf ears.

If he was trapped, stuck in someone else's dream, then he had the gut wrenching knowledge that someone on the team had sold him out. Nash came to mind, that cowardly weasel, but Eames hadn't been on the last job he'd worked with Nash. Of course it could go farther back than that, he knew. But he was still having trouble remembering things with confidence and clarity.

~~~~~

"He's doing much better today," Dr. Mears said to Oscar and passed him Arthur's file once the therapy session was over. She turned to smile at Arthur again from the doorway to her office. "If you're feeling up to it, you can join C Ward for group with Doctor Kendrick this afternoon."

"Of course," Arthur said with a terse little smile. He had no idea what the significance of that was, but anything that made him look like he was trying to fit in had to be helpful.

"I know you want to completely return to C Ward, but they want to keep you in D Ward another night to see if the new medicine works the way they expect it to. Observation," Oscar said as they headed down the hall, the rubber soles of their shoes squeaking slightly on the waxed floor. "When you do go back, you'll have a new roommate, though. I pulled some strings for you." His elbow nudged into Arthur's arm.

"Is it a friend of mine?" Arthur assumed it would be one of the people he'd met at breakfast. Some of them seemed perfectly normal, but others had obvious, serious issues.

"Something like that. Just make sure you keep things civil at group or they'll reassign you faster than you can blink." Oscar winked at him as they turned a corner.

"And what am I going to do until then?" Arthur asked, trying to bite back his annoyance at Oscar's playing coy. They passed several other staff and patients in the winding halls, which made Arthur think the orderly was just trying to keep himself out of trouble for whatever strings he'd pulled.

"Well, you've still got a couple hours until lunch, so you'll have to hang out in the D Ward common room until then. It's Tuesday. Arts and crafts day. Which means no television until after lunch," Oscar said after glancing at his watch.

"Oh goodie," Arthur breathed with a heavy sigh. He could see it now: finger painting and gluing pom poms and googly eyes to colorful paper like a five year old. He wasn't exactly sure how that was a constructive use of his time. It didn't help that he was also frustrated that he hadn't seen any doors clearly labeled 'contraband' yet. Nor was he sure if he would find the contraband closet so easily.

Oscar just chuckled and patted him on the shoulder as they walked through another set of doors back toward the D Ward common area.

~~~~~

Making crayon drawings of labyrinths and buildings had actually been a decent distraction for Arthur. Lunch left as much to be desired as breakfast, and then Oscar had shown up again to escort him to C Ward.

The orderly whistled as they walked, much to Arthur's annoyance. But once he expressed his annoyance, Oscar subconsciously switched to humming, then graduated to singing softly under his breath just before they entered the C Ward common room. "Let me, let me, let me... Let me get what I want..."

"Just on time, Arthur," the doctor at one end of a circle of patient filled chairs said. He had a large nose, graying hair and a soothing voice. His smile seemed more genuine than that of Dr. Mears's as he gestured to the one empty seat on the far side of the circle. "Thank you, Oscar."

Arthur headed around the circle of chairs and took his seat, his eyes on Dr. Kendrick as he began to speak in soothing tones about goals. Long term goals, short term goals. Goals were important to have. Only Arthur kept being distracted from whatever information he was trying to gather from the doctor by someone across the circle from him waving discreetly at him. He turned his head to look, annoyance written all over his face until his eyes processed the other man's deep set blue eyes, long handsome nose, the full smiling lips and day old stubble.

Panic and relief warred within him, his eyes glued to Eames's face, his shoulders, the way he held his arms and sat in his chair. Arthur wanted to be sure he wasn't any other forger, but he'd have to get a much closer look than this. He stood up and Eames's eyes went wide and found something else to look at as everyone else in the room looked right at Arthur.

"Is everything all right, Arthur?" Dr. Kendrick asked.

Arthur swallowed hard, not sure why the room suddenly felt so tense, like it was roiling with kinetic energy and about to blow apart. His heart pounded a mile a minute in his chest and it took all of his willpower not to cross the circle, grab Eames and make a break for it. _Play along_ he thought forcefully to himself. He watched Eames make a subtle 'sit down' gesture with his hand and plopped back down in his chair. His eyes darted from the doctor to the other patients and he cleared his throat as he looked down at his hands and then his feet. "Everything's fine. I'm sorry for interrupting. I thought I felt a spider crawling on me, but I guess I was wrong."

"Very well then," Dr. Kendrick said, seemingly satisfied with Arthur's explanation. He gestured to the patient on his right, a teenaged girl who looked very desperately like she wanted to be anywhere else. "Molly, let's start with you and go counter-clockwise around. Let's hear a short term goal and a long term goal of yours."

"Um, I want to move up to B Ward at the end of the month like I'm supposed to," the girl offered with a shy smile around the little group. She paused in thought and shrugged one shoulder up as she fidgeted with the ends of her hair. "Long term... I'd really like to get a job at a hair salon. Just... something I can do with my hands, y'know? Something to make people happy. Something fun that's a little different every day, but not so different that I feel out of my league."

"Those sound like very reasonable and attainable goals. Thank you, Molly," Dr. Kendrick said with a nod. He gestured to the next patient, then the next, who both shared more reasonable sounding goals about improving their health and getting jobs or starting families. "And Michael, how about you?"

Eames let out a puff of air and rubbed his chin in thought, pursing his lips as he crossed his arms over his broad chest, one leg bouncing anxiously. "Oh, let's see. Short term? I'd like a really good hamburger. And I don't mean the ones they pretend to serve in the cafeteria," he said and gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. Some of the group laughed and even the doctor cracked a smile. "Let's see. Long term goal. I don't guess it can be the same one as the short term? I mean it might take a little longer than I'd like to get a decent hamburger."

"I'm afraid you'll have to choose another goal," Dr. Kendrick said with a chuckle and a shake of his head.

"I want to... to prove to the people I care about that I'm not just a bloody scoundrel," Eames said, shooting Arthur a look that reminded him of a kicked puppy. But the look was gone in a flash, replaced with a smirk. "That's part of me, yeah, but not _all_ of me."

The other patients took their turns, but Arthur didn't really listen to any of them. He couldn't tear his eyes off of Eames, couldn't stop his head from running in circles as he tried to mentally list all of the questions he needed to toss at Eames as soon as they had a moment alone. Maybe Eames knew where the contraband closet was.

"Arthur?"

"Yes?" Arthur turned his head sharply to look at the doctor. He was looking at Arthur expectantly. It took a long moment for Arthur to realize it must be his turn. He glanced back at Eames to see he was biting his thumbnail. "Oh. Short term I'd like to be allowed to work on my art with better tools than crayons."

Eames did a very poor job of stifling a laugh, which earned him a glare from Arthur.

"Long term I'd like to get out of here, get back to my job, my life," Arthur continued and watched the doctor's face closely for any signs of ...anything.

"Very good, Arthur. Thank you," Dr. Kendrick said, then moved on to the last patient in the circle.

More discussions about goals carried on in a free form manner. There were some unkind things said, apologies made. All the while Arthur sat with his arms crossed loosely over his chest, willing time to move faster so he could pull Eames to the side. But before they could all put the chairs back in their proper places, Oscar the orderly had returned to collect Arthur and ferry him back to D Ward.

Arthur shot Eames a fleeting glance, wondering if he was really _Eames_ , or another forger or a projection. Really, he wasn't sure which of the latter options would be worse.

Back on D Ward, Arthur got in line for his evening medication like everyone else. He told himself to be patient, that tomorrow he'd be on C Ward with Eames all day and that he'd have plenty of chances to corner him and come up with a real plan. When he got to the front of the line and stood in front of the silver cart covered in little plastic cups with names on them, he was shocked to see who his pharmacist was.

"Here you go, Mr. Wright," Yusuf said with a warm smile. He handed Arthur a little cup with two pills. "Make sure you take them both at the same time. It'll help you get the rest you need."

"Yusuf?" Arthur's throat went a bit dry and he licked his lips as he accepted the little cup. Afraid that this, too, was another trick.

"Yes?" Yusuf's dark eyebrows shot up and he tilted his head to indicate the other people waiting in line behind Arthur. "Make it quick, you're holding up the line."

Arthur wasn't sure what exactly he could say to Yusuf that might help him, so he shook his head and walked off to get a cup of water and take his pills before he let Oscar strap him down for the night. Maybe he wouldn't have to go through with that on C Ward, then he could figure out what was really going on and make a solid escape plan.

~~~~~

"C'mon, it's this way," Eames whispered, gesturing down the dark corridor with his flashlight. But it didn't matter, his voice still echoed eerily off of the walls and tiled floor.

"Keep your voice down, they'll hear us," Arthur said, his voice a low hiss. He stopped short as he stumbled right into Eames's back.

"Steady, love." Eames reached out and grabbed Arthur by the hand, tugging him to his side and shining the flashlight beam on a door labeled 'Contraband'.

Arthur rushed forward and tried the handle, but the door was locked fast. He looked down and grumbled when he saw the keypad above the handle. How the hell was he supposed to know the combination?

"Try eight-zero-zero-eight-five," Eames suggested, the beam of light bouncing a little as he moved closer to the door.

Arthur punched in the number, which showed up in red on a little LCD screen above the number pad, reminding him of his alarm clock. When Eames burst into a fit of laughter, Arthur shushed him before looking at the numbers again and rolling his eyes.

"What are you? Perpetually twelve years old?" Arthur angrily cleared the numbers and tried to think of something that actually made sense. "If you don't have any serious suggestions, please shut the hell up. This is serious."

"I'm sorry... sorry Arthur," Eames said while catching his breath again. He hummed thoughtfully, but didn't say anything else for the moment.

On a whim, Arthur punched in 911 and pressed enter. A loud click emanated from the door and the handle shifted slightly. Arthur took a deep breath and pulled the door open. "This is it."

A flood of six sided dice poured out of the space beyond the door, filling part of the hallway and engulfing Arthur and Eames's shoes in white-pipped red plastic. Arthur leapt back, as if the dice were hot lava instead of mere plastic. It wasn't the totem he was looking for, exactly, but it was enough to let him know, forcefully, that he wasn't in Kansas anymore. A wave of panic and rage washed over him, making him feel sick to his stomach.

"Whose fucking dream is this? Is it yours? Do you know what the hell is going on? Get that flashlight out of my face and fucking answer me, Eames!"

~~~~~

"Arthur! It's all right. Calm down."

"Eames? You fuck..." Arthur squinted his eyes closed against the harsh, white light shining in his face. "You did this to me. No... you wouldn't."

"It was too strong. He thinks he's still dreaming again."

"Nash. ...Nash's forger. Becoming Eames..." It had to make sense somehow. He had to make it make sense. He struggled, tried to move, to sit up, roll over, but he was pinned down and couldn't open his eyes for the searing bright light.

"Sedate him."

~~~~~

Wind whipped through Arthur's hair, dislodging dark strands to curl and tickle at his temples. The dark water all around the prow of the white yacht glistened with the light of the fading sun. Arthur took a deep breath of the cool sea air and enjoyed the view.

"We're pirates," Cobb said from somewhere behind Arthur.

"Corsairs," Eames insisted. "It sounds more high class, more professional. Sexy."

"Pirates."

"Corsairs."

"Would you two shut up? You're ruining the view," Arthur said as he turned around and glared at the pair of them, both in full pirate regalia. They were always arguing about details, when they should've known to leave the details to _him_. He walked down to the main deck, his boots clomping loudly on the wood planks of the steps.

"I'm the captain and I say we're pirates and that's final," Cobb said, gesturing angrily with his hands before adjusting his tricorn hat and storming off to his cabin.

"What do you say, darling? And don't side with him just to spite me." Eames eyed Arthur from where he leaned against the mast, the wind whipping his shirt open to reveal tattoos, chest hair and the fine musculature Arthur had only ever seen twice before. Once on accident on a job and once on purpose when tailing him to try to deliver a package from Yusuf.

"They mean the same thing," Arthur said, and then he realized the boat had changed on him. And everything about them being on a ship, being pirates, was ridiculous. He reached into the pocket of his pants, red and white striped with a ragged hem that reminded him of a cheap Halloween costume, and pulled out a gold doubloon. His other pocket yielded nothing.

"Hey, I was looking for that," Eames said and marched over to Arthur.

"It's plastic. It's not real gold," Arthur told him.

Eames snatched the doubloon out of Arthur's hand and flipped it into the air. When it landed in his hand again it was a poker chip.

"Well?" Arthur asked. He had to know if it was really Eames's totem or not.

"Well what?"

"Do we need to abandon ship?"

"What would we ever need to do that for? It's only a model," Eames said and gestured over his shoulder with his thumb.

The great sea was gone, replaced by the glittering sights and sounds of the Las Vegas strip. Fountain jets shot up into the sky on the far side of the ship. Eames grabbed Arthur by the arm and walked off the near edge of the boat, which was open to the sidewalk, and flipped his chip in his hand again.

Then a woman with dark hair ran past, shoving Eames into Arthur and nearly toppling the both of them over. Her heels didn't make a sound as she ran off into the crowd.

"Bloody bint stole my chip!" Eames ran after her, disappearing into the crowd and leaving Arthur dumbfounded and alone on the sidewalk.

Arthur turned around and headed back they way they'd come, back to the ship. If he could just make it back to the ship he could find Cobb and let him know what had happened. They'd come up with a plan and everything would be fine again.

But the ship and the fountain were gone. Arthur turned down another street, heading for another impressive themed hotel, but the side street stretched on without end and Arthur found himself lost after several turns into increasingly dirtier alleys. He reached for the gun strapped to his back, under his jacket, and felt comforted that it was still there. He checked to make sure it was loaded, then heard a woman laughing up ahead.

The dark haired woman ran by the cross street and Eames was hot on her heels. Arthur chased after the both of them, calling out for Eames.

"Just let her go!"

"I need my totem!" Eames called back.

"Eames! It's not real! It's plastic! It's a toy!"

Eames darted down another side street and Arthur turned to follow when he reached it, but both the forger and the woman were gone. Arthur aimed his gun at the darkness ahead and took purposeful steps toward it.

"Eames?"

~~~~~

"Hello, darling."

Arthur blinked his bleary eyes, unable to focus properly at first, but then seeing Eames standing next to him, his worried face leaning over him. Eames played with his bottom lip nervously, his elbow cupped in his other hand.

"And where in God's name have you been?" Eames asked softly, his red rimmed eyes tracing over every inch of Arthur's face.

"Is it really you?" Arthur asked, his throat dry and voice cracking. He swallowed hard, but it didn't help much.

"I thought I'd lost you in limbo. I almost bailed, but they let me stay here with you."

"Don't leave me." Arthur tried to reach out, to touch Eames's arm, to know he was really there. Solid. Warm. Real. But his arm was still tethered to the bed with the rest of him.

"I can't follow you wherever you go when you're not here," Eames said, leaning in closer, breathing his warm breath against Arthur's ear and neck. His hand cupped the side of Arthur's face. "There's no PASIV here. There's not much of anything but this giant bloody building."

"We have to get out." Arthur closed his eyes and jutted his chin against Eames's hand. It was comforting having him there. Touching him, feeling him breathing and Arthur didn't care if he was a projection. He needed to believe he wasn't trapped alone. "We have to kill ourselves. They can't get whatever information they're after."

"No! No... Arthur it's too dangerous. You're under too deep. The sedative's too strong and I'd wager you're not in danger of getting stuck in limbo. ...Something far worse is down there, wherever you've gone for the last day and a half."

"Who's done this to us? What are they after? Why can't I remember what's going on?"

"No one's after anything here. It's just you and me, and I've got your back. Just hang in there, all right? I've never seen anything like this before."

"Untie me," Arthur said, feeling more awake and determined suddenly, again, that he was right to seek his totem. It had to be the key to getting out of whatever hell they'd been plunged into. "We have to find where they keep the contraband. That's where they put my totem."

"I can't. I have to play by the rules or they'll notice I'm not a projection like the rest of them." Eames licked his lips, the sound loud and obscene in Arthur's ear. Then he placed a chaste kiss to Arthur's temple and leaned up again, peering down at him. "It'd be ten times more difficult for me to get back in here again. This level... it's complex. Heavily guarded. Stable, but weirdly organic. It's brilliant, really. The perfect mental prison."

"Do you have an escape plan, or are you just going stand there and verbally jerk off the architect while I slowly lose my mind?" Arthur was frustrated with how impotent this entire situation made him feel. The best plan so far had been playing along, but there had to be something else they could do without a kick big enough to power through whatever heavy sedative they were under.

"There you are, love. Feeling more yourself now that you think I'm stroking someone else's ego?" Eames said with a smirk and a shake of his head.

"What aren't you telling me? If I'm not the target of some other team, then what the hell is going on?" Arthur found it more difficult to whisper the more agitated he became.

"Shh," Eames said, his fingers to his lips. He glanced back at the door. "Calm down. And don't tell me you haven't figured it out yet. This is your dream, Arthur. You took some ridiculous concoction of Yusuf's meant to simulate natural dreams. Like a complete idiot, you thought it'd be a great idea to give it a go alone, without telling anyone."

"Then how did you get here?" Arthur's brows furrowed, causing the strap across his forehead to tug on his skin uncomfortably. He wanted to believe what Eames was telling him. Everything he said fit with the real world he knew. The real world he desperately wanted to return to before _he_ started to believe he was crazy.

"I was... checking on you. You wouldn't answer your phone. I thought you might be in trouble, and, well, you are." Eames shrugged, looking sheepish, but smiling fondly down at Arthur through it all.

"Do we live together?" Arthur still wasn't sure if that week had been a dream or not. He'd felt so certain it had been, but now, in light of all this new information, he really didn't know anymore. And if Eames knew right where to find him and didn't have to break in, it seemed to make sense. Still, on the off chance that it had been a dream, he felt preemptively embarrassed for having asked as warmth rushed to his cheeks.

"Arthur, are you _blushing_?" Eames grinned wickedly and ran his knuckles down the inside of Arthur's forearm.

"Just answer the question, Mr. Eames." Arthur's tone turned stony as he set his jaw in annoyance.

"No, of course not. You can't stand me, remember? Or has that part of your brain gone fuzzy as well?" Eames said with a slow smile that didn't last long. He turned at the sound of footsteps and voices down the hall, then leaned back in and whispered quickly before moving out of Arthur's line of sight. "Don't swallow anymore pills."

"I didn't authorize this," Dr. Mears's voice carried down the hall and through the open door with the click-clack of her high heeled shoes.

"Arthur responds better when he's around. He actually participated in group instead of stubbornly saying nothing, and I believe what he said was genuine. He's ready to help us help him," Dr. Kendrick's voice replied firmly.

"Michael is a distraction and a source of stress. Arthur fixates on him almost as much as he fixates on that die of his. It's an unhealthy obsession, and allowing them to interact outside of therapy sessions is both dangerous and foolish."

"I respectfully disagree, Doctor Mears. I've seen how Arthur is more grounded around him. And keeping them apart, I think, was more damaging than allowing them--" Dr. Kendrick stopped mid-sentence as he appeared in the doorway with Dr. Mears. "Ah, hello gentlemen. I see Arthur is awake."

"Hello," Eames greeted the doctors with an overly cheerful voice.

"How are you feeling?" Dr. Mears asked as she swept over to Arthur and checked his chart.

"Better now that I'm awake. I kept having these terrible nightmares that didn't make any sense," Arthur said. He shifted his eyes toward where he knew Eames was sitting in a chair against the wall, then looked back up at Dr. Mears. "I liked having the good, boring dream better. I feel like I just ran three marathons."

"I'm sorry about that. I'll adjust your prescription back down to what it was the other night before I send you back to C Ward," Dr. Mears said with a strained, thin smile. She gestured for Dr. Kendrick to unstrap their patient from the bed. "How long has he been awake, Michael?"

"Not long. He was a little disoriented when he first woke up, but I reminded him where he was and he calmed down," Eames said, and Arthur could swear he heard a smile in his voice.

"You see, Dr. Mears? There's nothing to worry about," Dr. Kendrick insisted as he worked on the last few straps keeping Arthur attached to the bed. He helped Arthur up into a sitting position. "It'll be nice to have you back in my ward again, Mr. Wright. We've sorely missed your wonderful drawings."

"It'll be nice to not be strapped down every night," Arthur said with a smile as he stretched his arms over his head. He knew the aches and stiffness weren't real, but they _felt_ real enough. Just like the mattress sinking under his weight felt real, and his feet slipping into his shoes felt real, tactile, tangible. He stood up and stretched his sides, frowning a little as he caught a look passed between the two doctors.

"About that, Arthur..."

~~~~~

For the second night in a row Eames returned from the bathroom after flushing Arthur's pills, which he'd cheeked, and closed the door behind him. So far, Arthur hadn't had any deeper dreams, and they both attributed it to the "pills" being a trigger for them.

C Ward was much less strict in most regards, and the two of them remained as subtle as possible when it came to their deceptions. Otherwise, they'd been model patients, doing as was expected of them and being helpful where allowed. Building trust with the projections, they decided, was a priority while they worked out their escape plan.

"I don't understand why we're still here," Arthur said from his increasingly familiar nightly position in his bed. He'd been slowly coming to terms with the fact that he'd effectively trapped himself in his own mind. It was strange, though, to know that everything around him, every person except Eames, was really _himself_. "And why do I keep strapping myself to the bed every night? I don't thrash around in my sleep. You said so yourself."

"It has to do with the chemicals. Yusuf said it was experimental. It's like your mind is confused and it's ...it's protecting you. And it's manifested its defenses as a hospital and doctors and ...a bed with straps to keep you 'safe' while you dream." Eames sat on the edge of the bed next to Arthur's legs and leaned over him a little, one arm braced in the space between Arthur's waist and far arm. "I never really thought you could be so deeply lost and off kilter, Arthur. You're always so cool and collected. Everything in its place. Every angle examined."

"I wanted a real break from all that," Arthur said, ignoring the way Eames's side hovered dangerously close to his hips. The memories had been slowly coming back to him with Eames's help. Just having him around made it so much easier to focus on the differences between reality and dreamscape. Though every day he still had moments where he wasn't really one-hundred-percent certain which world was the real world. "I wanted to really dream again. The kind of dreams I had when I was younger. Fantasy realms. Nonsensical places and events. That feeling of waking up and wondering where I'd pulled all the pieces of my dreams from. A tv show. A conversation with a friend."

"You didn't want to be in control for a change?" Eames's eyebrows shot up and he bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud. He gestured at Arthur's predicament and put his fist to his mouth to stifle another laugh. "I can see that."

"Don't make this into something it's not," Arthur warned, his voice low. "And stop _laughing_ at me. I didn't do this on purpose."

"Yes, Arthur. Yes, you did. You did something so completely reckless and selfish... reminds me a bit of me, actually. But here you are, at the mercy of your own mental defenses--"

"Sort of defeats the purpose, then, doesn't it?" Arthur ground out through clenched teeth, cutting Eames off without apology. He reflexively tried to move to somehow get Eames off of his bed, but it only succeeded in making Eames shift down closer to him, his face inches away. "If I wanted to give up control, I sure as hell wouldn't hand it over to my subconscious."

"And why not? That's where all your base desires lie. You could just let them run free for a change instead of keeping them under lock and key." Eames's full lips curved into a wanton smile and he dared to shift on the bed, crawling up over Arthur and leering down at him. "I mean, seriously Arthur, look what happens when you don't let them out once in a while? They turn the tables on you as soon as they get the chance. Tie you up. Make you believe you've been drugged deeper into your own head."

"I do get laid sometimes, if that's what you're talking about. Now get off my bed unless you actually want to talk about getting the fuck out of here," Arthur said, his voice carrying a hard edge. He felt like Eames didn't take him seriously when he was strapped down like that. And he felt it was difficult to take himself seriously when his eyes kept shifting from Eames's face to the way his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he spoke and swallowed, down to the way his navy blue Penrose t-shirt stretched across the musculature of his torso.

"You set a timer on the PASIV," Eames reminded him.

They'd discussed waiting it out the night before, but neither one of them liked the calculations they'd come up with. If the dream was behaving on a basic level like a traditional second level, and Eames had assured Arthur it was a second level, then the dream would last the equivalent of two years thanks to the amped up Somnacin.

"I know this is a dream now, one I didn't create lucidly, so why don't I just wake up?" Arthur asked as his eyes met Eames's again.

"There's a shadow of doubt. You might not be in your own dream." Eames frowned a little, then licked his lips and leaned down until his forehead was pressed against the strap keeping Arthur's head still. His nose brushed along side Arthur's and his lips were close enough to barely brush against Arthur's as he spoke. It was maddening. "You're filled with them. You've always been so bloody skeptical. And usually it's been a good thing, given us an edge in our line of work, but here... outside of work it's holding you--"

A knock sounded at the door and Eames scrambled up off of Arthur's bed and across the room to his own before the door opened halfway. Oscar the orderly peered in with a smile. "Lights out, g'night," he said and flicked the switch off.

"Night, Oscar."

"Goodnight."

The door closed again with a soft click and the sounds of the next room's door being knocked on filtered into the room. The two of them fell silent for so long that Arthur was sure Eames had fallen asleep. The other man was breathing evenly, but Arthur wasn't tired yet and stared up at the dark ceiling, barely made visible by the small amount of hallway light sneaking through the outline of their door.

"We have to find my totem. I don't want to be stuck here for two years. We might both lose it," Arthur said softly, hoping Eames might be awake enough to have heard him. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that his mind must have placed the die safely in a vault of some sort. But Arthur wasn't typically given to flights of deep introspection, so there was no telling what the vault might actually be.

He lay there, awake, trying to think of the sort of places he might hide something dear to him. Whatever the vault was, and he seriously doubted it was a literal closet, it was likely at the heart of the hospital. Wherever _that_ was.

When he was ten he'd hide his treasures in an old metal lunchbox his grandfather had given him. The box was stowed safely under his bed until a friend of his found it and ruined his favorite GI Joe. Then the box went behind his board games on the top shelf of his bedroom closet. When his mother found it, she pestered him about a piece of broken glass he'd kept and threw it away for being a health hazard. Then the box had migrated again into a shoebox that he kept on the bottom of his bookshelf.

At fifteen he'd stolen a Playgirl magazine from a convenience store out of curiosity and for the thrill. The magazine had been kept safely between the pages of a much larger world atlas until he'd no longer needed to hide those sorts of things so well.

His apartment in New York had several key hiding places. Hollowed out books. A false-backed shadowbox of souvenirs of all the capital cities he'd visited. A vase. A fake can of bug spray.

_Everything was hidden in plain sight._

Arthur's mind raced, trying to think of everything exceptionally ordinary that he'd seen since he'd woken up in the hospital. There were decorations, cabinets, shelves and book cases full of possible hiding places. They'd have to completely scour the place until they found what they were looking for. He began to mentally categorize the easiest places to check from the most difficult, but didn't get very far before he drifted off to sleep.

~~~~~

Arthur wandered through the rows upon rows of slot machines with his hands in the pockets of his neatly pressed pin-stripe trousers. The sounds of the machines, beeping and pinging and spilling coins, mixed with the awful elevator music coming through the speakers high overhead. Colorful lights only added to the bombardment of his senses, but Arthur was on a mission and couldn't let the sights and sounds distract him.

Finally he spotted a familiar form leaning over a craps table. He walked down the aisle between the slot machines with determination, his focus on the gambler's broad shoulders, the shape of his ear and the hint of stubble he could see on his cheek as he glanced at the woman in red sitting next to him.

This was it. This was the day he would finally tell Eames to shit or get off the pot. He'd had enough and he had to know the truth, dammit.

"Mr. Eames," he said as he joined him at the table. He smoothed down his tie and the front of his pin-striped vest a little nervously and braced himself for fifty varieties of rejection and ridicule.

"Arthur," Eames greeted with a smiling glance up at him before he placed more of his chips. "Have you finally pulled that stick out of your arse and come downstairs to have some fun?"

"I need to speak with you about something important," Arthur said, not paying attention to the annoyed looks the other people at the table were shooting him for distracting Eames.

"Blow me first, darling," Eames said. He looked Arthur in the eyes, then glanced down as he licked his lips in what felt like slow motion.

"No more games, Eames," Arthur said with an arch of his brow. He was so sick of it. Tired of the endless rounds of flirtation that he couldn't decipher. Was it genuine? Was Eames just being Eames? It wasn't as if Arthur had never seen the man flirt with anyone else before, but he always felt like he got special treatment in that regard. There was that look in Eames's eyes, the set of his gaze, that hinted at genuine desire.

"Well I have to finish this one before we have our little chat. Now blow," Eames said and held up the twin red dice in his hand. "For good luck."

Arthur scowled at Eames, at his annoyingly handsome smirk, and blew on the dice without much enthusiasm. Eames rolled and the people gathered around the table made various sounds of excitement and disappointment as the dice settled.

"Hard ten!" the croupier called out, then pushed the chips to their appropriate places with several winners, including Eames.

"I've heard about a job in Atlantic City. Sounds crazy, a real challenge. You should come with me, be my lucky charm," Eames said as he collected his chips, then followed Arthur away from the table.

"Spare me," Arthur said. He felt an odd sensation at the back of his neck, like he'd had this conversation before, but he shook it off and kept leading Eames toward the elevators.

"Should I apologize for wanting you to stand next to me looking handsome just so I can tell you to blow me over and over again?" Eames asked, sounding amused at himself. He didn't wait for a reply before carrying on. "And what's this important conversation you want to have with me, hm?"

Arthur didn't reply as they got on an otherwise empty elevator and pressed the button for the twenty-second floor. He kept bracing himself, but the longer it took to get to his room, the more he felt sure he was making a huge mistake. Eames would tell him it had all been in good fun and Arthur would be left looking like an utter fool for somehow missing that in all of Eames's mixed signals. Their professional relationship, strained as it was already due to personality clashes, would be ruined.

"Arthur..."

The elevator dinged to let them know they'd reached their floor, but the doors didn't open. Instead there was a knocking sound from the other side.

_No, that's not right. That wasn't how it went._

~~~~~

"Good morning, Mr. Wright and Mr. Eames," Oscar said, chipper as usual. He headed over to Arthur's bed and went about unbuckling the straps while humming a a vaguely familiar tune.

Arthur realized the knocking hadn't been in his dream, it had been here, in the hospital. Only that dream hadn't been a dream. It had happened. Over a year ago. Before Eames had pissed off to Mombasa after his job in Atlantic City had gone south.

"Morning," Eames said, punctuated with a yawn and a stretch. He rolled onto his side under his covers and smiled over at Arthur and the orderly. "How'd you sleep, Arthur?"

"Pretty well, actually. No night terrors," Arthur said and blinked a few more times until his right arm was free so he could rub the sleep away.

"Glad to hear it," Oscar said with a smile. He headed out of the room with a cheerful little whistle. "See you at breakfast."

Arthur got up and stretched a little before he headed to the door and closed it with a suspicious glance through the window at the top of it.

"Feeling all right, Arthur?"

"No." Arthur turned around, ran a hand through his hair and wondered if it would kill them to let him have some hair gel.

"C'mere and tell me about it, love," Eames said and scooted over to make room in his bed. It was obvious he didn't want to get ready for breakfast yet.

"Stop calling me that. And I'm not going to share a bed with you," Arthur countered, his voice too tired to muster any sharpness.

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the dream this morning," Eames muttered with a sigh. He rolled onto his back and tucked his hands under his head, oblivious to how terrible his bedhead was.

"I had a memory," Arthur said softly as he crossed back over to his own bed and sat on the edge of it, facing Eames's bed. He bit at a loose piece of skin on his bottom lip, hands braced on the mattress and his eyes not focusing on anything.

"I hope you have more than one or we're in real trouble here."

"I mean last night. Instead of a dream... I relived a memory."

"Which one? Was it important?"

"No, it wasn't important," Arthur lied with a shrug. It had been stupidly important to him at the time. He'd run back over what he'd almost done so many times in the weeks after. Berated himself for not having any balls. Told himself he'd been right to dodge that bullet. And he'd eventually accepted his decision and tried to move on. It wasn't like there was anything going on between the two of them outside of years of suggestive vitriol and what was likely one-sided sexual tension. "It's dangerous. I know better than to go diving around in my own memories."

"Maybe it is important and you don't realize it? Maybe it could help us get out of here?" Eames sat up in his bed and propped himself up against the wall, covers pooled around his hips and over his legs.

"It was right after the Carter job in Vegas," Arthur began slowly. There was no real harm in telling Eames. They were stuck together regardless. "You were playing craps and I..."

"You dragged me away to your room to talk about Cobb," Eames finished for him, his voice as blank as his expression. It was so odd that Arthur narrowed his eyes at him in confusion. "You were worried about him, I know."

For a long moment they were silent, just looking at one another. People passed by their room noisily on their way to the showers or the cafeteria. But Arthur had no idea what had just happened and was eager to ruin the tense uncertainty filling the space between them.

"I told you, it wasn't important," Arthur insisted, his tone even, decisive.

"Your highly trained subconscious traps you in a complex and heavily guarded prison inside your head, then feeds you a memory, and you _really_ think it's completely unimportant?" Eames threw his hands up, then dropped them on his lap while shaking his head in exasperation.

"It's inconsequential to the mission," Arthur said. He shoved his hair back out of his face, but the stubborn curls flopped right back where they wanted to be. "And I think I have a lead on that. I did some thinking before I fell asleep--"

"Why am I here?" Eames asked suddenly. He shifted to the edge of his bed and leaned toward Arthur, forearms braced on his thighs. "That's what I've been thinking about. The longer I'm stuck in your own personal hell, the more I wonder why exactly am I here."

"You're... my really annoying... sometimes coworker... friend," Arthur said slowly, trying to find the right words and coming up disappointed.

"That's all?" Eames scrubbed his hands over his face and looked around the little white room, his eyes patently avoiding Arthur's face.

"Don't even try to get defensive Mr. Eames." It wasn't right for him to turn that around. If anyone was at fault for the stagnant status of their relationship, it was Eames.

"I'm not being defensive, Arthur. I'm the only one you let in here." Eames paused, finally looking over at Arthur again, searching his face for something. "Once I found you I called Yusuf, Cobb and Ariadne. ...I didn't know what to do. Yusuf tried to go in first, to have a look around, just recon. He felt guilty, especially after he found you unconscious in the first level without a PASIV."

"I trust you," Arthur said simply. And as he said it, he knew it was true. He trusted Eames to watch out for him. Trusted him to be there, sometimes even when he couldn't ask for help, like now. So it made perfect sense to him that he'd let Eames in on a subconscious level.

"More than Cobb? You've been friends with him since you were teenagers. He got you into the business. I know how close--"

"Look what he did to his own subconscious." Arthur's brows rose in unison. Even if he'd had a conscious choice he wouldn't want Cobb that deep in his mind. "I'm lucky I'm only fucked up enough to lock myself up in a mental hospital and make Ariadne my sister."

"Point taken," Eames mumbled, his eyes going wide for a moment before he smiled a little.

They lapsed into a more comfortable silence, and once Arthur felt Eames didn't have anything else to say on matter, he was ready to talk escape plans again. "I think I've hidden my totem in plain sight. In some sort of hidden compartment or disguised container."

"We can check the common room today. The cafeteria might be easier to handle between mealtimes." Eames nodded in agreement and stood up so he could grab clean clothes from the shared dresser at the end of Arthur's bed.

A knock sounded at the door a moment before it was pushed wide open to reveal Oscar's smiling face. He looked a bit sheepish as he stepped farther into the room.

"Sorry, guys, but I had to check on you since no one had seen you leave your room yet. I can't have you both missing breakfast," the orderly said, sounding genuinely apologetic.

"No worries, Oscar," Eames said. He smiled as he closed the dresser drawer with a clack and turned with his clothes in his arms. "I was wondering, where _is_ the contraband closet? I heard a rumor it's in a fourth basement, but that seemed bloody impractical."

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but it was too late. Eames had asked the projection a question that would give away exactly what they were doing.

"Oh, well, it's not really a closet, per se," Oscar said. He laughed a little shyly and Arthur could swear he was blushing. "Dr. Mears keeps all the contraband safely tucked away in her office. The closet part is a rumor too, but don't tell anyone else I told you that."

"Thank you, darling. Mum's the word," Eames said with a wink. He waved goodbye to Oscar as he made an awkward retreat. "He's completely adorable. Must be a remnant of your awkward pre-teen years."

"Why would you even do that?" Arthur hissed. He was off the bed in a flash, rounding on Eames with a finger jabbed in the forger's chest. "Now the rest of them will know. They'll make this practically impossible for us!"

"Arthur." Eames calmly grabbed his finger and lowered it back to Arthur's side after some initial resistance. His blue eyes locked on Arthur's brown ones as he laced their fingers together. "Trust me."

Arthur closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, counting down from ten. The projections could act as a unit when in defense mode. Something akin to a hive mind. But right now his subconscious felt comfortable enough with his and Eames's presences to let them have a little relative freedom. The projections were still acting as individuals.

"They're compartmentalized entities," Arthur blurted out. He opened his eyes and shot Eames a quizzical look at the squeeze he gave his hand. They were standing there just holding hands like middle schoolers. _What are you? Perpetually twelve years old?_ His own dream's words came back to him in a flash like deja vu. His gaze swept from their clasped hands up to Eames's face again. "I keep dreaming about you."

"All this running around in your head's making me tired, love," Eames teased and huffed in amusement at his own terrible joke. He tossed his clean clothes onto Arthur's bed and reached up to stroke his fingers down the side of Arthur's face, his fingertips grazing over stubble until they reached the curve of Arthur's jaw and tilted his face up slightly. Eames leaned in, eyes flicking from Arthur's eyes to his mouth, and pressed a light kiss to his lips. When Arthur didn't respond, he pulled back, hurt written across his features even as he tried to smirk it off. "If you're worried about morning breath, I'm not."

"I think you're a projection."

It shouldn't have been disappointing. It should have been obvious from the beginning. Arthur always brought Eames with him when he went under for a bit of an escape. The Eames he wanted, but couldn't have in the real world. Sometimes they'd go on amazing adventures. Sometimes they'd take a vacation. Sometimes they'd get drunk and fuck like rabbits. But it always happened inside Arthur's head.

"Arthur..."

"There's nothing you can do here to prove otherwise." Arthur shook his head and pulled away, his voice thick with emotion. This was it. This was the end of the line. No more ridiculous pining over a man who had no idea how he felt about him. No more fighting with himself over whether or not his desires were good for him.

"Then let's get out of here." Eames smiled and headed for the door. He peered out, looked both ways twice. "I'll distract them. You slip out of the common room and head for Dr. Mears's office."

"How do I know this isn't a trap I'm setting for myself?"

"Trust me."

Arthur trusted Eames. But this person, or projection, whatever the hell he was, was not really Eames. He couldn't be. Could he?

"What if you're not mine?"

"Trust yourself."

~~~~~

Arthur headed into the cafeteria, still in his pajamas and without having showered, shaved or combed his hair. It didn't matter now. He wasn't really a mess in the real world. All that mattered was getting back out there.

Meanwhile Eames had already gone through the breakfast line and had joined the table with the most patients. He was being loud and obnoxious, causing arguments. And then Arthur, from his place in the breakfast line, heard a resounding _splat_ followed by gasps and laughter. He turned around, tray still in hand, as a food fight broke out.

The cooks hurried around from behind the counter and orderlies streamed into the room amid squeals of laughter, crying, shouts and the disgusting sound of food hitting every available surface.

Arthur hurried out and ran, full steam, out of the common room and down the hall. His sneakers thudded and squeaked as he recounted the path to Dr. Mears's office. He knocked, prepared to draw the doctor's attention to the chaos that had erupted in C Ward, but there was no answer.

Heart pounding in his chest, Arthur noted the keypad lock above the door handle and swore in disbelief. There were so many damn passwords he knew. So many important numbers in his life. Birthdates. His social security number. Death dates.

He punched in an older numeric code, but the handle wouldn't budge. He tried a newer number. And another. And another. He tried nine-one-one and laughed, a panicked desperate sound to his own ears, as he punched in eight-zero-zero-eight-five for the hell of it.

"Mr. Wright? ...What're you doing?"

Arthur's head snapped up and he saw Oscar, a scared and confused look plastered on his face, gawking at him from just down the hall.

 _Shit_.

"I'm going to have to get the doctors." Oscar backed away slowly, until he disappeared down the side hall he'd come from. The slap of his shoes echoed on the tile floor.

Arthur yanked the door handle in frustration, then slammed his hands on the door itself and tried to think. This was his head. He knew the code already. It was just buried, hidden away somewhere. He stared down at the numbers on the keypad, really looked at the numbers themselves. Every single one, black paint set into a groove on the silver metal, was pristine. Except one.

"That's too fucking obvious," Arthur scoffed to himself.

_Hidden in plain sight._

He punched the five, hit enter and flung the door wide open, then slammed it shut behind himself and turned the deadbolt. His eyes raced around the room. There were so many _things_ in the office and he had so little time. He grabbed books off the shelves, yanked them open and tossed them over his shoulder when they turned out to be filled with pages alone.

A thundering of footsteps echoed from the hallway.

Arthur grabbed the nearest piece of furniture and shoved it up against the door with a bang. He grabbed an end table and stacked it on top of the chair as the magazines it previously supported fell to the floor like injured birds.

He dashed to the bookshelves again, tossing off as many books as quickly as he could. A fist pounded at the door and Arthur jumped, his hand jerking and knocking a snow globe to the floor. He jumped back as the glass shattered, throwing the statue of liberty, glitter and liquid on the carpet and his shoes.

"Mr. Wright! Open the door or we'll be forced to break it down!"

Arthur looked up at the other snow globes on the shelf. His eyes scanned across Big Ben and the union jack, then skipped over to the other globe's Las Vegas welcome sign, the city skyline, and the single red die seated on a bed of plastic, glittering snowflakes.

"We'll give you one more chance to open the door. We know you're in there."

Arthur grabbed the globe by the base and smashed it against the shelf. Glass shards sliced into his fingers, stinging like a bitch, but he didn't care. He didn't care about the sound of the wood door being chopped with an axe. All he cared about was the familiar die in his unmarred hand, its imperfections exactly where they should be. He held it up to the light like a diamond, opposite corners supported lightly between forefinger and thumb, testing the weight.

The die listed toward its fifth face and Arthur smiled as the hospital shook and crumbled around him.

~~~~~

Arthur sucked in a sharp breath as his eyes flew open and he sat up on his hotel bed. His stomach felt like it was going to stage a revolt for a moment. He doubled over with a groan and yanked the PASIV line out of his arm.

"Never again," he grumbled.

"Never again," Yusuf agreed from across the room. "You said you wouldn't test it alone, you lying bastard. Do you know how hard it is to get someone trustworthy to look after my shop with no notice?"

Arthur glanced up, blinking his eyes to clear his vision, and saw Yusuf sitting at the hotel room's desk. Ariadne was passed out on the couch next to the bed, her head pressed against Dom's shoulder as he glared at Arthur disapprovingly. And there, lying on the bed next to him and disconnecting himself from the PASIV, was Eames, whose expression was nearly as stony as Dom's.

He was still trying to process everything. So much had happened, so much confusion and discomfort, and he was left feeling shaken and weak.

"You made me miss my daughter's ballet recital," Dom said in low tones.

"I'm sorry," Arthur mumbled. And he was. He was genuinely sorry he'd been foolish and reckless.

"You're a selfish prat," Eames said.

"I'm sorry," Arthur repeated as he rubbed his palms over his temples. He needed to get up, to move around. He slid to the edge of the bed and looked at the red display on the alarm clock. One twenty-six. He'd only been out for three hours and some change. "I'll stick to what I know."

Ariadne yawned and looked around the room before she grabbed Dom's arm and sat up a little to peer at Arthur owlishly. "Oh. He's awake. You've got a really nasty subconscious, Arthur."

"You have no bloody idea," Eames mumbled as he pulled his poker chip out of his pocket and handled it. Seemingly satisfied, he pocketed the chip again and headed for the door.

"Did it work?" Ariadne asked, her eyes lighting up with excitement. "I mean, I haven't done enough work yet to stop having natural dreams, but it'd be nice to know I could get them back down the road."

"Sort of. Not really," Arthur said, but his attention wasn't on Ariadne. It was on Eames putting his suit jacket back on and reaching for the doorknob. "Where are you going?"

"The pub." He pulled the door open and ducked into the hallway.

Arthur was on his feet and out the door before it could click closed again. Eames had already speed walked halfway to the elevators.

"You said you wouldn't leave me," Arthur called out as he marched toward him. The hallway's vibrant carpet felt too plush against his thin socks.

Eames stopped in front of the elevators and pressed the down button. He shook his head slowly and exhaled. "You asked me not to leave you and I didn't. There's a striking difference between the two."

"No there isn't." Arthur caught Eames's eyes and held them as he closed the distance between them. He grabbed Eames by the front of his salmon colored shirt and pulled. There was no resistance as their mouths crashed together.


End file.
